FAUST redux
by Ryuujitsu
Summary: Wednesday had begun innocently enough, which was why Bakura Ryou found it somewhat surprising that a mere twenty-four hours later he had died and gone to hell.


Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! does not belong to us. It has never belonged to us and never will.

Notes: Faust rewrites have begun! Actually, they began months ago, and then my hard drive started making terrifying noises, and I thought I'd better post this before it was lost forever. With any luck, new!Faust is going to be a bit more concise and a bit more lighthearted, with fewer POV switches and a handful of character and plot changes. I hope you like it!

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><p>Chapter I: Wherein Ryou makes stupid decisions<p>

Wednesday had begun innocently enough, which was why Bakura Ryou found it somewhat surprising that a mere twenty-four hours later he had died and gone to hell.

It was true that Ryou's mother had not been entirely human, and that he had always been able to see things no one else could see, but in Domino City he had lived like a normal boy. In his mother's home in England he had tripped daily over brownies and sprites, but now, for the first time, he walked in a world almost entirely mundane, and the pattern of his days formed itself around school and arcades and assignments, and silent dinners in a silent apaato, with very little supernatural in between.

The day turned strange after club activities, when one Jounouchi Katsuya grabbed Ryou by the scruff of the neck and hauled him into an empty classroom.

People like Jounouchi never talked to people like Ryou except maybe while they were feeding them knuckle sandwiches. Ryou was alarmed. He thought about sprinting away, or maybe rolling up his sleeves to throw some punches of his own, and entertained a brief and horrible fantasy of being dangled out the classroom window by his ankles. He didn't run. This was the first mistake.

Jounouchi didn't say anything. He stood scowling down at Ryou, eyebrows knitting together. They were bleached to match the orange-blond of his hair, and with the afternoon sun hitting him through the windows, Jounouchi looked a little bit supernatural in that moment—like a fire demon, if fire demons wore Domino High School uniforms and slippers.

"Can I help you?" Ryou said, when the tense silence had stretched on so long as to become excruciating.

"Yeah," Jounouchi grunted, and then he was quiet again.

"So. . .?" Ryou said.

Jounouchi rubbed at the neon green Band-Aid decorating the bridge of his nose and shifted from one foot to the other. Eventually, he mumbled, "I need your advice."

"I'm all ears," Ryou said encouragingly. "Hit me. Except not really. Please."

"You can't tell anyone about this." Jounouchi's eyebrows wrinkled together some more, until he looked quite fierce. "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you. Got it, Bakura?"

"Got it. Absolutely," Ryou promised, crossing his second and third fingers together and leaning forward in what he hoped was a passably conspiratory fashion. "I won't tell a soul," he added, which he thought was a nice touch, and Jounouchi jerked as though he'd just been shocked by a live wire and backed away until he hit a desk.

"You," Jounouchi ground out. "You're one of them! You're in on it with them!"

"With who?" Ryou asked. "In on what? What did I say?"

Jounouchi looked terrified.

"I want to help you," Ryou tried.

"Shut up," Jounouchi said. His face was pale. "Just _shut up_, Bakura. If you tell anyone about this, I'm gonna have your head on a goddamn silver platter, and I don't give a fuck about hellfire and brimstone—"

He could have walked away after that, and left Jounouchi to his own devices. There was really no justification for what he had done next, especially after Mum had warned him so many times to stay away from marketplaces. But suddenly the thought of another evening studying alone over cup ramen was unbearable, and he took the money he had set aside for the collector's edition of the dungeon dice game and bought a ticket for the shinkansen instead—

"Mermaid, boy?"

Ryou twitched, startled, and looked around. All around him, the air was thick with magic and chatter, as various people marketed their wares and wove their spells under the setting sun. His mother's cross was uncomfortably warm against his skin, humming with the power that twined through the bazaar. He could see why she had warned him against places like this—but surely there was no harm in looking.

So he looked—past two young women peddling strings of hovering glass beads, past the smith advertising swords that could cut through stone, the potioner puffing clouds of glittering poison into the air, the baker selling winged confections, and a blue-haired perfumer rearranging her display of glamours and other magical enhancements—and saw the man who had hailed him: an elderly fisherman plying caged mermaids. The fisherman leered crookedly at Ryou—he had no teeth—and jabbed at his prisoners.

"Mermaid?" he said again. The mermaids blew frothy kisses, their webbed fingers fluttering.

"Er," said Ryou. "No, thank you."

The fisherman snorted. "Ye sure, boy? They're fine creatures, these beauties. Fresh from the South China seas."

The nearest mermaid, adorned with kelp and black pearls, toyed with her hair and watched Ryou coyly through silvery lashes.

"Pretty things," said the fisherman. "Born to please. They don't know better than _to_ please."

The mermaid smiled, revealing two rows of razor sharp teeth.

"Oh—uh—_wow_," Ryou gasped. He began to back slowly away. "No—really, no thanks. I'm not—I'm—I'm looking for the demon auctioneer, actually—_gah!_"

"The demon auctioneer?" said the woman whose sandaled feet he'd just trodden upon. "Whatever for, boy?"

Looks were always deceiving, but she seemed young, in her late twenties, with wide, kohl-painted eyes and a sheet of jet black hair that fell neatly over bare brown shoulders. She wore gold, and a great deal of it: strange golden eyes graced her throat and brow and golden circlets adorned her pleated dress and bedecked her arms and ankles. She looked like she had stepped out of the Egyptian wall paintings housed in the Domino art museum.

He recognized the energy around her necklace; his mother's cross did too, pulsing hotly in response to the magic emanating from it. This was a Seer—upper caste, without a doubt, and far older than the face she wore.

"Isis Ishtal," she said, thin-lipped and unsmiling. "Of the Dahlia Ishtals."

_The Dahlia Ishtals—a demon!_ What was more, she had given him a name, which you only did in the marketplace if you were stupid—or stupidly powerful, so powerful it wouldn't matter—and Ryou had gone and stepped on her foot.

"Oh my god," Ryou said, even as the old fisherman quailed and cringed backward. "I am so, so sorry."

"I'll live," Isis of the Dahlia Ishtals said, sounding dryly amused. "But tell me, boy. Why do you seek the demon auctioneer?"

"I wish to speak with him," Ryou said, clenching his fists and trying very hard not to shake from head to foot. She didn't _seem_ angry, but there was never any telling with demons. His mother had said that she had seen demons smilingly eviscerate their prey, in the war she had fought long ago. "I have business with him."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Oh?" That was definitely amusement now, sparkling in her blue eyes. Ryou wondered if this was it, the pause before the vicious strike, and made silent apologies to Jounouchi and, belatedly, to his father. But a heartbeat later he was still alive.

"I do believe _she_ is on a lunch break at the moment," Isis Ishtal said. "But I'll be glad to lead you to _her_ stall and let _her_ deal with you."

"Oh," Ryou said, feeling like an idiot. "Yes—I'm looking for her. I'm sorry—I shouldn't have assumed."

"Indeed—one should never assume." Isis Ishtal smiled at him, wide and bright and dangerous. "Come along, boy."

Demons didn't walk, Ryou reflected as he trailed cautiously after her; they _floated_.

The demon auctioneer's stall at the east end of the marketplace was a looming mass of black: black canvas overhead, black lights hovering underneath in glowing circles, and in the center of it all a raven's feather quill and an obsidian inkwell sat at a table the color and texture of charcoal. Parchment was scattered around the stall in messy piles. Ryou shivered as he saw the signatures—written in blood.

"I have done you this favor," Isis said, her breath warm against the shell of Ryou's ear. "Will you do me one in return?"

This was ritual language—binding language. He had to tread carefully.

"I will," Ryou said, and added quickly, "but within reason."

Isis Ishtal laughed. "I see you've been trained in these matters. Well, boy, this is what I ask of you:

When you meet him,  
>Yellow-haired, foul-mouthed, the boy king adorned with scars,<br>He whom my brother seeks,  
>Yellow-haired, foul-mouthed, the boy king adorned with scars.<br>When you meet him,  
>Tell him he must turn back—at all costs turn back,<br>No sweet reunion awaits. The way before him lies choked with dust.  
>Tell him must turn back—ere sorrow seizes him,<br>And the way home is barred to him for ever."

"Well," came a new voice, "that's a blessed sad song to be singing so early in the day, Lady Ishtal."

The woman who had spoken was seated atop the stall table, where no one had been moments before.

"Peahen," Isis said, smiling her frightening smile. "I've brought you a customer."

Sun-yellow hair tumbled over the auctioneer's shoulders as she leapt from the table and swayed toward them on stiletto-heeled, thigh-high purple boots. Her hands were huge, spindly and birdlike, each finger a talon.

"Boy," Isis said sotto voce to Ryou, "will you take my message?"

"I will," Ryou said, which was the second mistake. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the auctioneer's clawed hands.

"Lovely," Isis said. "Then—I go. Hellfire guide you," she murmured, and then she was gone as though she had never been.

The auctioneer sashayed up to take her place, hands on her hips, watching him with crimson lips curled into a smile that seemed bloody.

With a voice that miraculously didn't waver, Ryou said, "I want to make a deal."

The red mouth parted as Peahen laughed. "We'll see. Let me have a look at you first, kiddo, and then _maybe_ we'll talk deals."

She grasped Ryou's chin and began to turn his head from side to side. "Green eyes," she murmured, peering at him through a gold-chained monocle. "That's _adorable_."

"Um," Ryou said.

"Really adorable," Peahen said, her talons sharp against the skin of his throat. "I haven't had a soul with green eyes since I don't know when."

"Yes," Ryou said inanely. "Er." He stared determinedly into a black corner of the stall, away from the swell of Peahen's breasts above her wine-colored corset and the taut lines her miniskirt made as it stretched and shifted over her hips.

"Hey, kiddo," she said, eyes narrowing as she continued to circle him. "You're not in the Bandit's records, and I sure as hell haven't seen you before. Exactly _what_ are you doing down at this end of the market? Hmm?"

It felt like he was waking up—like the last sixteen years of his life had been nothing, and Peahen's voice was what had roused him from that enchanted sleep, torn the last bit of that dream from his eyes. On the shinkansen he had decided to play things by ear, the way he usually dealt with spirits on the lam, but now—now he knew exactly what he wanted, and what he was going to do.

"I'm here," Ryou said, "to exchange my soul for Jounouchi Katsuya's."

Peahen lowered her monocle. "You sure about this?" she said. "Once it's done, it's done, and there's no way to reverse it unless some other idiot soul decides to trade itself in for you. I can't guarantee what kind of demon will buy you or how they'll treat you. And since you're only exchanging, you won't receive the worldly benefits that other souls get when they sign themselves away. Classic disclaimer," she added. "Just want you to know what you're getting into."

"Jounouchi has a sister to look after," Ryou said steadily. "I don't. So take my soul in place of his. You're allowed to do that."

"What is he, your one true love or something?" Peahen said. "I'll tell it to you straight, kid, if this is some kind of grand romantic gesture, it's _really_ not worth it."

"No, it's not like that—he's just—" Ryou stopped. _A friend? A classmate? The guy who threw me into the swimming pool on my very first day at school?_ "It doesn't matter," he decided. "I'd like to make the exchange, please."

"Eternal damnation for a guy who's 'just—'!" Peahen threw back her golden head and laughed. "Well, that's a new one, I guess. Hang on while I get the form."

She swayed back to the table and began to shuffle through the heaps of parchment, mumbling under her breath. "Now _where_ did I put the blessed thing? Lucifer anti-Christ—oh—that's right." She drew a roll of parchment out of nothingness, and then sent it speeding toward him with a puff of breath.

"Read it through, kid, and then sign at the dotted line if you still want to go through with this."

"I'm going to do it," Ryou said, the form still crumpled in his hand.

"Just read it," Peahen said. The talons glittered. "Can't tear your soul out 'til you do."

Ryou unrolled the parchment and scanned it. _SOULE EXCHANGE CONTRACT_, it read. The ink was smudged, and smearing even more under his fingers.

_ Ye fylging is an accorde betwene Bakura Ryou, human, and Kujaku Mai, ye demoniac Auctionere. Yn exchange for ye release of ye Soule of Jounouchi Katsuya from its Contract, Bakura Ryou does plege to Allow ye separation of his Soule from his Body and ye auctioneering of Sd. Soul to ye highest bidder & Obeye his demoniac Master to ye fullest extent._

_ Yn exchange for ye Soule of Bakura Ryou, ye demoniac Auctionere does plege to Release ye Soule of Jounouchi Katsuya from its Contract & Preserve ye origynalle benefyttes stipulated in ye Contract of ye Sd. Soule of Jounouchi Katsuya with regardes to ye blindenesse of his sister—_

There was space for further restrictions and demands. Ryou supposed this was where the additional benefits were written in.

_ After ye transaction, ye fylinge conditions applye: That ye Soule of Bakura Ryou will fulfill all Sd. Conditions of ye original contract of ye Soule of Jounouchi Katsuya. That ye Soule of Bakura Ryou is not to make contacte with ye worlde of menne without ye explicite permission of its Master._

_ Ye Soule of Bakura Ryou may be freede from Bondage yf A thirde party agrees to exchange its Soule for ye Soule of Bakura Ryou, OR yf Ye Master of ye Soule of Bakura Ryou agrees to free Sd. Soule._

_ Ye Disclaimer:_ _Ye demoniac Market of Soules be in no waye responsible for ye care of ye Soule of Bakura Ryou once Sd. Soule has beene solde._

And finally: _I, Bakura Ryou, ye Soule in question, haue reade ye aboue Terms and Conditions and agree fully to all ye Sd. Terms and Conditions._

There was a space for two signatures below.

"Yes," Ryou said. "I agree. I'll sign."

He held the parchment out for Peahen—Kujaku Mai—to take, but she didn't move.

"Well then," Mai said, "how do you want to go, kiddo?"

"Make it look as though it was my fault," Ryou said, after a moment. He hadn't thought about this. "Like I got hit by the train on my way home from school because I wasn't paying attention, or something like that. Something that won't drag anyone else into this."

"Suicide work for you?" Mai said.

He nodded. "Yes," he said. "That's fine—that's really good. Thanks. Only—"

"Only what?"

"I think—I'd like my body to be intact," Ryou said. He smiled, a bit wryly. "I'm sentimental, I guess."

"Sure," Mai said. "We can do that."

The parchment grew warm in his hands. He glanced down to see the words rearranging themselves, fresh ink welling up.

_Bakura Ryou will Allow his Death in ye worlde of menne to be writ as Suicide._ _Yn exchange for ye Soule of Bakura Ryou, ye demoniac Auctionere agrees further to Recorde ye Death of Bakura Ryou in ye worlde of menne as Suicide._

Kujaku Mai tossed him the quill. "Don't bother with ink," she said.

Ryou held the quill to his palm, closed his eyes, and slashed. It hurt less than he thought it would, like he was already fading, incorporeal, but he still felt a bit light-headed as he scratched his name onto the dotted line. As he finished, Mai's signature—an intricate violet script with many flourishes—danced across the lower bar.

The parchment shifted again. A final sentence bloomed at the very bottom of the page: _Signed the twenty-second of June, in the year thirty-five-hundred and twenty-seven._

"Is that it?" Ryou said, surprised.

"Not quite," Mai said. She stepped away and intoned, solemnly, in binding vocabulary:

"Soul, listen carefully. It will be as I say: Your father found you yesterday. There was no note. There will be no investigation. You were strange and quiet; you did not have friends; there were pills, and you swallowed them down. You will be—"

"Buried," Ryou said. It was what they had done for Mum and he wanted the same.

"—buried," Mai said. "Buried and forgotten."

"Yes," Ryou said, barely daring to breathe. The very air around him seemed to be vibrating, and inside his ribs his heart thundered and shook.

"All right then!" Mai said, with sudden and jarring cheer. "Congratulations, Mister Bakura—you are damned eternally."

After a few minutes, Ryou began to shake. A wave of dizziness swept over him; the contract and quill slipped from his fingers. He bent to retrieve them and stopped, astonished, as their forms blurred before his eyes. His tongue curled backward in his mouth, until he thought he might choke on it. He felt his thundering heart subside and his lungs empty. He choked for breath; he panted like a dog. The skin of his chest grew suddenly hot—he sucked in a ragged breath and could not hold it—

"I'm dying," Ryou gasped. "Is this—am I dying—?"

"I wouldn't know," Mai said sympathetically. "Just have a seat, hun. The Bandit should have felt that; he'll be here soon. And if he's not, he's more of a drunken bonehead than I took him for initially."

Ryou grabbed at a corner of the desk to steady himself, but another wave of dizziness forced him to his knees. The air seemed to be swimming: the outlines of Mai and her desk dimmed and brightened; the sounds of the marketplace grew to a roar in his ears. There was a dull explosion that he felt rather than heard, like a blow to the ribs, and then a hand was pressing into his jaw, drawing him up, and he was blinking hazily into blue eyes as the smell of alcohol flooded his nostrils.

"Hmm, green eyes. Nice." The man's voice was hoarse and somewhat slurred. "Got anything else for me, baby?"

"Just the one," said Mai, seemingly from a long way off. "Soul, this is the Bandit. He'll be taking you down."

"Ye—" Ryou rasped. "Yes—"

"It was nice doing business with you," she said.

Ryou opened his mouth to say something, anything, and cried out instead. There was something burning him, burning straight through sweater and skin and bone—he clawed at it and tore it away from his neck, throwing it to the ground—

His mother's cross—

It lay smoking in the dust. Ryou pulled at his sweater and moaned as he saw the wound: the cross had seared his flesh, leaving a livid brand. The edges of skin around it were red, already bubbling into blisters.

Somewhere above him, the Bandit was roaring with laughter. "What'd you bring a cross for? God doesn't like what we do down there—don't you know that?"

Ryou tried to retrieve the cross, scrabbling for it in the sudden darkness with blistered fingers. He couldn't lose this, his mother's cross, the only thing he had left of her—he had meant to take it down with him—it was important, so vitally important, that he keep it safe, near, always around his neck—

The cross evaded him. His eyes wouldn't focus—the pain was like an iron band closing around his chest, squeezing him—

"Of course I know," Ryou gasped, and—

He woke in the green gloom of evening deepening to night. He was flat on his back, blinking up at the six moons rising in the sky, their horizontal crescents arranged like slivers of fingernail on a six-fingered hand reaching toward endless stars. A single lantern dangled overhead, and with its dim light he thought he could see the outline of—yes, there was the Bandit just beyond, snoring. They rested in a clearing, but there was forest all around, wind whispering through the leaves overhead and strange animals lowing in the distance.

There were others lying unconscious or asleep around him—it was hard to tell how many. Ryou began to sit up for a better look and choked as metal bit into his throat. Slowly, disbelievingly, he reached up and felt the fetter around his neck—the foreign, cold ache, the keyhole, the linked chain that led to a thick staple—the similar manacles that bound his wrists.

He lay back. The brand on his chest throbbed.

One of the prone forms stirred and turned over to regard him with a clanking of metal. Ryou met gleaming eyes in the darkness—eyes and teeth.

The teeth moved. "So you're awake at last, Sleeping Beauty," the other boy said. There was another clatter as he gestured at their bonds. "Kinky shit, this, innit?"

"Uh—I guess," Ryou said.

"What's your name?" the boy said. "Tell you mine if you tell me yours."

Ryou hesitated. Mum had always told him not to give out any part of his name to potentially magical strangers—but really, how much harm could it be, when they were both chained to the ground?

The boy scoffed. "You worried? I'm not going to use it against you, cross my heart and all that shit. Here, I'll go first." He lowered his voice. "Some have called me Malik."

"Malik," Ryou murmured, testing it. It was only half a name, so he would give the same in return. "I've been called Bakura before."

"Huh," Malik said. "So, Bakura, what are you doing down here, you poor bastard?"

"It's kind of a long story," Ryou said.

"Come on," Malik said, cajoling. "We have a few hours. Spill! Why'd you do it? Fame? Fortune? Love?"

"I didn't," Ryou said. "That is—I did it for a friend."

There was a pause, and then Malik said, quietly, "Unrequited love?"

"No," Ryou said. "It wasn't unrequited, it was because—" He stopped. He wasn't sure, now, why he had done it—why he had squeezed Jounouchi's large hand in his own and promised to take a look into the matter—why he had gone straight to the marketplace after school instead of stopping to think about it. "No," he said again. "I didn't—I don't know why I did it."

"_I_ did it for love," Malik said. "Well—lust. But it ain't unrequited. I have it all figured out, yeah, Bakura? My boyfriend's gonna buy me and then we are going to spend all of eternity having _crazy kinky sex._"

"That's wonderful," Ryou managed.

"More like fucking amazing," Malik said. "Hey—you want in?"

"Uh," Ryou said. "Thanks. But I think I'll take my chances."

The chains rattled as Malik shrugged. "Your loss. Tell me if you change your mind, yeah?"

He rolled over, and Ryou saw that his back was a mass of tattoos, lines cut through flesh and welts to form an elaborate tableau. There was an illustration there, something humanoid raising its arms toward a winged sun, but in the dim light the tattoos seemed more like—

_Scars._

Malik was plenty foul-mouthed, Ryou thought. And his hair in the lantern light—

"Turn back," Ryou said, and then he bit his lips, trying to close his mouth against the words bubbling up in his throat.

"Huh?"

"Pharaoh's Keeper," Ryou said. With a jolt of horror he realized that Isis Ishtal had somehow laid a compulsion on him, one so subtle it had not needed words, and so strong it had stayed with him even as his soul fled his body.

Malik struggled in his chains. He couldn't do much more than glare at Ryou, though, as he snarled, "Who are you? How do you—there are _three people_ in this entire universe who know that name, and you're _not one of them_—"

Ryou couldn't stop the words now. His mouth opened; magic manipulated his teeth and tongue. "Malik, Pharaoh's Keeper," he said again. "Malik of the catacombs. You must turn back. Break the chains and flee, Pharaoh's Keeper, ere sorrow seizes you. He will not come. Turn back, Pharaoh's Keeper; return to your body, before the path closes behind you for all eternity—"

He panted in silence as the compulsion left him. Malik was gaping at him, speechless with rage.

"I'm sorry," Ryou said, when he could speak again. "I met a demon in the marketplace. She wanted me to carry a message. I didn't realize she'd enchanted—"

"That _bitch_," Malik yelled.

"_What_?" Ryou said.

"It was Isis, wasn't it?" Malik said, and as Ryou began to nod, he swore. "Isis hates me," he said. "Thinks her brother's throwing his life away on me. She's been trying to break us up for _months_. 'Before the path closes behind me for all eternity'? Come the fuck on!" He let loose an incredulous stream of Arabic, angry guttural sounds that seemed to flow endlessly into one another and ended in a howl: "_NICE FUCKING TRY, BITCH!_"

Ryou yelped as the Bandit appeared suddenly in front of them.

"Hoy, shut the fuck up, you little pissants!" the Bandit hissed, looming over them. "You'll have the whole fucking forest down on our ears in a minute. I don't want that. Do you want that? No, you fucking _don't_ want that."

"S—sorry," Ryou said.

"So sorry," Malik said, sounding anything but.

"Just keep it down," the Bandit grumbled, and stomped away muttering to himself.

"Malik," Ryou said, awed. "Malik—you're crazy."

"I'm crazy?" Malik said. "I have a plan. I have a _support system_. _You're_ the guy who got out of bed this morning and decided to sell his soul to the devil for apparently no fucking reason at all.

"Don't worry about me," he continued. "I'm gonna be fine."

Ryou wasn't so sure. He had watched enough anime to know that talking about your own personal happy ending only increased your chances of getting axed tenfold. Still—as he looked at Malik, dreaming and gloating in the lantern light, he wanted to believe.

At dawn, as weird birds flew screaming from the trees, the Bandit slapped everyone into consciousness and had them wash with water from a bucket that continually replenished itself. He did not return their clothes, but arranged them, naked and well scrubbed, on a wooden stage at the edge of the clearing.

A sizable crowd of demons had already gathered. They stood jostling and shouting and laughing in the space just below the stage; some reached out to grab at the ankles of the souls, who recoiled, drawing peals of laughter from the crowd.

There were twelve other souls, men and women, of various ages and varying degrees of translucence. None of them would meet Ryou's eyes as he glanced at them, and they were mostly silent, though he saw tears glistening on the cheeks of several. Others simply looked resigned. They were all gray and wan, and Ryou imagined he must look the same; anxiety sat heavy in his stomach. Only Malik seemed cheerful, and he continued to smile as one by one the souls were sold and carried off—and then it was his turn, and his smile withered as he scanned the crowd.

"He's not here," Malik said. "Holy shit. He's not here."

"Malik?" Ryou said.

Malik's eyes were wide. "That bastard," he breathed. "That bastard!" He spun at the Bandit. "Wait," he said. "Something isn't right. He's late—he's gotta be running late. You have to stop." He jerked a finger at Ryou. "Sell him first!"

"Very fucking funny," the Bandit said. He shoved Malik forward. "Get up there."

"No," Malik said. "_No_—"

"Isn't this a cute kid?" the Bandit said, drowning him out. Malik tried to back away; the Bandit pushed him forward again. "Look at this hair—those eyes—this mouth! He can be yours, for a starting price of thirty sev—"

"Thirty!" someone said immediately.

Some elbowing. "Forty!"

"Do I hear fifty?" the Bandit said, cupping one hand around his ear. "Did someone say fifty?"

"Fuck you, let go of me," Malik shouted.

"Feisty, isn't he?" the Bandit said, grabbing him around the neck. "Don't you just want to make him _cry_?"

There were more bids, but some demons had begun to back away; apparently fifty severs was too hefty a sum for most.

"Eighty!"

"Ninety!"

"One hundred and a crate!"

"We have one hundred and a crate of the good stuff," the Bandit shouted. "Do we have one-fifty? Do we have one-fifty?"

"_Three hundred_."

Heads turned. The demon who had spoken stood at the edge of the forest, far from the rest. He wore his gray hair long, and it fell over the shoulders of his maroon surcoat, cut from stiff, shining, and clearly very expensive material. He had snapped up two other souls, both female, for eighty each, and they stood now behind him, guarded by a group of demons in dark suits. Was this the boyfriend, Isis Ishtal's brother? Ryou wondered. He seemed much too old, and Malik looked too anguished—

At that bid a demon at the front of the crowd threw up his arm; his worn traveler's cloak, patched with a rainbow of fabrics, billowed around him. "Three hundred and twenty-five," he said quietly.

"We have three-twenty-five," the Bandit shouted. He was beginning to sweat. "Do we have three-fifty?"

"We do," said demon in the maroon surcoat. "Three hundred and fifty." Sunlight glinted against one of his eyes, and Ryou realized it was false—and made entirely of gold.

"Three seventy-five," the other demon offered.

"Four hundred," Maroon Surcoat shot back.

"Four-fifty."

Maybe this was the boyfriend, Ryou thought. But no—Malik wasn't smiling. He looked afraid.

The golden eye seemed to twitch. "You _are_ persistent, aren't you?" Maroon Surcoat said, and rubbed at his socket. "Five hundred."

The Bandit was spluttering. "_Five hun—_do we have six hundred? Six hundred?"

"Six hundred," the other demon said.

"Seven," Maroon Surcoat said. He drew forth a massive feather that glittered in the light like it had been carved of black crystal. "Seven hundred severs, and this delightful roc's feather. See how the sun shines on it?"

The other demon shrugged. "Well, I tried," he said. "He's all yours."

It was the Bandit who broke the stunned quiet. "Sold," he bellowed, "to Mister Maximillian Pegasus, for the unprecedented sum of seven hundred severs and a roc's feather! Bless! _Bless!_"

"Hey, Bakura," Malik whispered. His eyes were red. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Yes," Ryou said. _Within reason_. "Anything," he said.

"Tell Isis what happened to me. And—" his voice wobbled and broke "—and t-tell her brother—shit—shit, _fuck this_—t-tell him t-too. And tell him he's a f-f-_fucking_ asshole—"

One of Maroon Surcoat's henchmen had reached the stage. Malik bowed his head and went; Ryou looked away, feeling sick.

"Whew!" said the Bandit. "And now, getting back into a price range most of us can understand. . ." There was some laughter. He pushed at the gray-haired woman; she stumbled to the edge of the stage and stood there looking pale and terrified. The Bandit dropped a casual arm around her shoulders. "Now _this_ lovely lady," he shouted, "sold her soul for wealth and fame. Don't let her greed get you down, though; she'll work hard! Do we have thirty severs?"

The crowd was silent. A handful of demons were still staring at Maroon Surcoat, waiting for him to throw down another hundred.

"Seriously?" the Bandit shouted. "No one wants her? No one at all? All right, all right, all right, you win—I'll drop the price. Fifteen! Do I have any takers for fifteen?"

No one. Scowling, the Bandit exclaimed, "Come on, you fucking cheapskates—how about ten? Ten! Come on, that's a good fucking deal—"

"Ten severs!" someone said, in a voice like thunder.

"Five and a mermaid's tail!" someone else shouted.

The Bandit latched on to this one. "Five and a mermaid's tail," he said. "Do I hear fifteen? Fifteen, anyone?"

"I'll give you pixie wings by the dozen!"

"Twenty—twenty!"

The sounds of the auction faded as Ryou realized the demon in the patched cloak, the one who had tried to win Malik, was watching him. Their eyes met, and he drew in a startled breath. There was something in those black eyes—

The demon came stepping toward him, moving easily through the crowd. He stopped at the edge of the stage and touched the bone of Ryou's ankle with a burning hand, and Ryou shivered.

"Soul," the demon said. "I'm not giving you up for anything."

"Yes," Ryou said, breathless, and this was his third mistake, his third and worst. But before he could even think to reconsider, the gray-haired woman was being borne off on the broad back of a demon with horns, and it was his turn.

"Do we have thirty?" the Bandit shouted.

The demon's hand was hot on Ryou's skin. He said nothing as the bids rose again to fifty—then seventy-five.

"One hundred," said Maroon Surcoat, eventually.

The demon raised his arm. "One-fifty," he called.

"This again?" said Maroon Suit disdainfully. "Three hundred, then."

"Come now, Master Pegasus," the demon said. "Save some for the rest of us!"

This quip was met with a ripple of laughter. The demon turned back to the Bandit with a smile that was all teeth. "Three hundred and fifty, Bandit Keith," he said.

The Bandit looked like his birthday had come early. "Do I have four hundred?" he said. "Four hundred from either of you fine gentlemen?"

"And again," Maroon Surcoat said, "I bid seven hundred."

The demon threw back his head and laughed and laughed, and the hood of his cloak fell away from his face. For the second time that morning, heads turned. Demons exclaimed, and Ryou gulped. The charms of yesterday's mermaids were forgotten and the memory of Kujaku Mai's ripe and bloody beauty fell away with them—

"_Bakura?_" said Bandit Keith.

"Bakura?" Ryou said, blankly. "But—that's my name."

He regretted it instantly. If Isis Ishtal had been able to compel him with no name at all, imagine what a demon could do with just half—

But the demon only whistled. "Is it, now?" he said. "How very strange. Supposing we're related? —that wouldn't do at all."

"Well, well, this _is_ a surprise," said Maroon Surcoat silkily. "The Debtor of Dahlia!"

"And the Paedophile of Pulandian!" the demon replied, with a broad and unpleasant smile. "Well met! Well met!"

A murmur ran through the crowd. "Pedophile of Pulandian!" someone repeated, and guffawed.

"Very funny," said Maroon Surcoat. He looked angry.

"_One thousand_," the demon Bakura said.

"One thousand—unholy—" The Bandit staggered. The crowd watched, rapt.

Bakura said, "Well, Master Pegasus?"

"Tch!" said Maroon Surcoat. But for the spots of red in his cheeks, visible even at a distance, he seemed unruffled. "For a common houseboy—tch!—have him, by all means, and enjoy him. I concede. Croquet!" he said smoothly, spinning on his heel. "Collect our winnings—let's be off."

"Sir!" said one of the dark suits, leaping to obey him.

Bandit Keith was overcome. "Do we have one thousand and one?" he asked the crowd. No one spoke. The Bandit seized Ryou's arm and raised it high, as though Ryou had just won a boxing match. "One thousand!" he gasped. "One thousand! _Sold!_" He dropped Ryou's arm and launched into the closing formalities, actually blinking away tears.

Then the demon Bakura smiled his dark smile, and Ryou slipped off the stage and into his waiting arms.

"Er," Ryou said, after a protracted embrace, "I think you forgot to pay," and gasped as the demon took him around the waist and hauled him nearer.

The crowd parted before them.

"So I did," the demon said. Over his shoulder, he called, "Bandit Keith—so sorry—put it on my tab, will you?"

Ryou looked back in time to see Bandit Keith turn several different colors.

"Motherfu—stop them!" he screamed. "That's theft! That's fucking theft!"

Bakura shouted with laughter, pressing Ryou close. The smell of myrrh filled the air, and the world _lurched_—

Ryou noticed the tapestries first, faded and threadbare, embroidered with strange and fabulous beasts, hanging on walls of dark stone. The room was circular and seemed to be tapering to a point; there were wooden rafters overhead, thick with cobwebs. Then he looked down and saw the mess: they were standing in the middle of a cramped study, atop the wreckage of two bookshelves.

"Home sweet castle," Bakura said. Then: "Oh, hell."

Ryou heard a menacing _thwap! _and looked up to see a girl bearing down on them with a book in hand. She was pink-cheeked and blonde, and somehow managing to be extremely terrifying while wearing a cartoonishly large wizard's hat.

"Shaitan below, Master Bakura," she said, sounding exasperated. "What do you have against the front door?"

"Are they still there?" Bakura asked.

"Who?" said the girl. "The creditors? Yes, of course they're still there, it's only been two hours!"

"_That_'s what I have against the front door," Bakura said.

"Oh, no," the girl said, catching sight of Ryou as he stood in the rubble. "What's this? What is this? He's naked! What have you done? You said you were going to get money!"

"Other Bakura, meet Mana," Bakura said. "Mana, this is Bakura. The other Bakura. Naked Bakura. He belongs to us now."

"Hello," Ryou said tentatively. "It's nice to meet you."

"Oh _hell_ no," Mana said. Her eyes were also green. They flashed. "How much have you spent?"

"A piddly sum," Bakura said. "Nothing to worry your little golden head about, Mistress Mana."

"Return him!" Mana said. "Return him right now!"

"Not a chance in hell," Bakura said. "Say goodbye to Mistress Mana now, soul-boy. She's in a rage, and we must flee before she murders us with her bare hands. She can do that, you know. I've seen her do it before."

"Those are blasted blessed lies," Mana said. "I would never. Well," she added, apparently reconsidering, "maybe_ you_, Master Bakura."

"Goodbye," Ryou said obediently. "Sorry," he added.

"Is it a sex slave?" Mana yelled after them, as Bakura took Ryou by the elbow and led him from the room. "Have you gone and purchased a_ sex slave?_"

"Go pawn something, if you're so worried about the money," Bakura shouted back.

"I wish I could pawn you!"

"Darling, we both know I'm not worth a single blessed dinarus."

"You're cleaning this up later, Shaitan bl—" The door creaked shut, and they were alone in a narrow winding stairwell.

Ryou said, "Who—?"

"Mistress Mana, of Kismet," Bakura said. "My very vocal right hand demoness, and a capable sorceress in her own right. Don't mind all the screaming, she's been that way ever since we had to sell our kitchen staff to make last month's rent. Which is why, soul also named Bakura, I sincerely hope you can cook."

"What? I," Ryou began, and forgot everything he was going to say when Bakura pressed him against the wall and kissed him.

"As I said," the demon murmured, pulling back the slightest bit, "I rather hope we're not related." He licked his lips and laughed when he noticed Ryou staring intently at them.

"Coincidence," Ryou said, breathing hard. "Probably. I hope."

He sighed a bit as Bakura kissed him again.

"Well," Bakura mused, "if you're amenable to it we could always go the sex slave route Mana so kindly suggested—"

"I can cook," Ryou said quickly. He wondered if demons had heard of cup ramen.

"Good boy, of course you can," Bakura said. "Come here."

It was true that he had no idea what he had gotten himself into, and that his chest still hurt, and that soon he would have to find the frightening Isis Ishtal to pass on news of what had become of Malik. But—

Wednesday had begun innocently enough, and now it was Thursday night and Bakura Ryou was dead, damned, and generally pretty okay with it.


End file.
